


Christmas Morning Fuck Fest 1 and 2

by pamdizzle



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Advent Challenge 2012, Breakfast in Bed, Fluff, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Prompt Fill, Some Plot, Table Sex, all porn, christmas sap, not a lot, romanceyish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 09:17:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pamdizzle/pseuds/pamdizzle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was written last year and is a two part fuck fest written in response to a prompt for the KS Advent that asked for Sarek and Spock to serve their bondmates, Bones and Jim, breakfast in bed with a side dish of sex. It's titled somewhat differently on Livejournal, but uh...oh well.</p><p>Another older work of mine that I'm just now getting around to moving here. lol. There are so many...more than I remember! lol</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One: Ambassador and Physician

Vulcans were not, by nature, an outwardly romantic species…and so, had anyone told Leonard McCoy a year and a half ago that he’d be waking up to breakfast in bed, served to him by a pointy-eared hobgoblin bondmate on Christmas morning (a quote, unquote, illogical Terran holiday), he would have laughed in their face. In fact, he had often rolled his eyes at his best friend and Captain, calling him seven kinds of fool for the better part of the first year of their five year mission. It had been difficult to watch, in more ways than one, as Jim went from attempting to befriend to pining over their emotionally retarded, computer-brained First Officer.

It had started just two months in, with Jim inviting the Vulcan to lunch and Spock repeatedly declining each and every offer for the first three weeks until the Captain was literally moping from the center seat. Of course, Jim was nothing if not a seasoned strategist and he didn’t believe in no-win scenarios. So, McCoy had watched as Jim took to stalking his prey—learning Spock’s habits, where he liked to spend his free time, when he ate, if he had any hobbies—before he made his move. It wasn’t long before Jim was approaching Spock in the officer’s rec room and challenging him to a game of chess. That first game lasted for over two hours until finally Jim, much to the shock of everyone, claimed victory. It was pretty much all downhill from there…but at that point, it was still like oil and water in Leonard’s estimation.

Sure, the two of them had several things in common and they made one formidable command team. Yet, he just hadn’t understood how someone as vibrant, as passionate…as _human_ as James T. Kirk, could possibly fall head over heels for a guy who was culturally obligated to abstain from anything resembling _emotional_ attachment. Sure, he’d proven he was capable of anger during the Narada Crisis, but it had taken _so much_ just for that single, momentary lapse—the death of his home planet, his mother and then Jim’s verbal assault on top of it all. Watching Jim smother the Vulcan in friendship and affection, pouring his everything into making Spock _happy_ , it just seemed so…one sided. From the outside, Leonard couldn’t understand how making love to Spock would be any different from fucking a cadaver and hoping it was still in rigor mortis.

This drunken analogy was regretfully uttered aloud in response to Jim’s confession that he thought he might be ‘in love’ with Spock, just about eight months after that first chess game. Needless to say, it had not gone over well—ending in a painful ass-kicking in the middle of a blessedly deserted sickbay during Gamma shift which not only left Leonard with a black eye but a bruised ego as well. Luckily, that little skirmish hadn’t made it onto any official reports, but it had taken over three months for him and Jim to get back to some semblance of normal, all the while with Leonard getting more and more glimpses at the ghost in the shell, formally known as Spock.

It turned out that it didn’t take the destruction of a planet to earn an emotional response from the Vulcan after all, despite its subtlety when it did happen. The first peek he’d gotten of thinly veiled emotionalism had been of Spock’s jealousy. Whenever the Captain was ogled appreciatively by horny dignitaries, Spock’s posture would snap into place with even more rigidity than usual and his jaw would set, teeth clenched, like granite. To untrained eyes, the Vulcan would look just as coolly detached as ever, but Leonard had been forced into the Vulcan’s presence by his best friend’s insistence since almost the very beginning and now…he _could actually see it._ Then, there were the times Jim landed himself in sickbay after some god-awful missions gone awry.

 Sure, there were always a few scuffs and bruises involved in just about every away mission they got sent out on—missteps on new planets, physically demanding native rituals—but the really close calls, while they didn’t happen often, were hard on everyone. And when Jim was hurt, _really hurt_ , Spock was a near-constant presence at the man’s bedside. The first time it happened, was just over a year into their mission…that was how he had witnessed his first Vulcan kiss too, actually. McCoy had been headed to Jim’s room to check his IVs and run a final vitals scan that evening when he found himself stopping short just outside the door.

He’d felt an immediate sense of intrusion as he watched Spock make what could only be described as an intimate gesture; the back of two extended fingers lightly caressing Jim’s temple, over and over.  Spock had next leaned forward in his chair, his eyes closed as he bent his head to whisper in Jim’s ear, only one word was just loud enough for McCoy to pick up—a Vulcan word: “…ashayam.” He’d been somewhat shocked to discover its meaning after hours of searching on the ship’s database: Beloved or one who is cherished. It was enough to make him feel instantly remorseful for all the misconceptions and stereotypes he’d subjected the Vulcan to…for riding Jim so hard about the impossibilities of having a mutually loving relationship with someone like Spock.  Worse though, it made his stomach clench with no small amount of jealousy. Why couldn’t he have that? Why couldn’t Jocelyn have thought of him like that, _cared_ about him like that…even just a little?

Of course, he’d never even seen the Ambassador coming…at least…not in the way he did and he sure as hell hadn’t seen _this_ particular destiny written in the stars for himself. One diplomatic mission, a near fatal injury and time spent, awkwardly at first, in one another’s company had been enough to piqué Leonard’s interest. Sarek had sucked him in like a whirlpool with his intensity, his compassion and his dedication to his work. It had been hard to accept the attraction for what it was…at first. Leonard had never been turned on by another man before, and he’d fought it tooth and nail until Sarek had come to his quarters, implying some illness, only to corner Leonard against his desk and kiss him within an inch of his life.

“Is everything to your liking, Leonard?” Sarek asked, grounding him in the present once more.

“Are you kidding?” he indicated the tray full of eggs—sunny side up and peppered, just the way he liked it—lightly buttered toast, grits, hash browns and a piping hot cup of black coffee with two sugars on the side. “Darlin’, you outdid yourself.”

“I disagree,” Sarek replied stoically, but his eyes shined with the love McCoy knew sizzled just under the surface. “We are out of orange marmalade and the replicator is not programmed to produce it.”

“Well, marmalade or no…” he said while poking a fork into his egg and dipping a piece of toast in the yoke, “this beats the hell out of any fare on the _Enterprise_ and this is the best Christmas morning I’ve had in years.”

“I am gratified to hear it,” his bondmate replied quietly, “I am not always sure…” Sarek stopped himself abruptly and made to stand. “I should prepare for James and Spock’s arrival—“

                Leonard caught Sarek’s wrist before he could dash from the room, feeling through their bond his husband’s uncertainty. “Hey,” he pulled Sarek back down to sit on the bed, taking a minute to set aside the breakfast tray, “talk to me. Jim and Spock won’t be here for hours and I can feel you frettin’ over _somethin’_.”

                “It is illogical,” Sarek replied solemnly after a pause.

                “Well that’s perfect then,” Leonard insisted, letting his accent pour out through his most charming grin. “I’m thinkin’ that, as an illogical human myself, I might just be able to help you navigate this new, emotional territory.”

                “It is not new,” Sarek’s eyes warmed for an instant before once again becoming clouded, and he averted his gaze to the far wall. “I wish to find a way to…express through action, the depths to which I cherish thee, Leonard. Especially on this day, for she who was my wife was also human and I know she coveted this Terran holiday above all others…

                “I researched several different human romantic gestures which might be appropriate to the holiday and at the time, this one,” He gestured to the tray on the bedside table, “seemed adequate. Now, however, I find it lacking in several respects. It is not a wholly unique idea nor does it require a large effort to prepare. In fact, now that I have implemented it, breakfast in bed does not appear deserving of its position as ‘Number One Most Romantic Way to Wake Your Lover on Christmas Morning’ as the article in my secretary’s _Cosmopolitan_ _Magazine_ reported.”

Leonard would have laughed, if it weren’t for Sarek’s serious tone. He’d read a top ten list…out of a _Cosmo Magazine_? He bit his inner lip, but the humor of the situation died at his husband’s next words, “I never…I did not adhere to my former bondmate’s customs…I did not attempt to show her in the tradition of her people how much I…loved her. I pushed our only son to ignore the best parts of himself in favor of embracing his Vulcan heritage…I did nothing to quell her alienation on Vulcan. I took her for granted.” Finally Sarek met the eyes of his new bondmate, his voice quiet, but thick with the depths of his Vulcan emotions when he added, “I do not wish to repeat these errors. Leonard, I…this gesture is an inadequate expression of my appreciation of our time together…of you, of our…love.”

                There wasn’t much that could bring Leonard H. McCoy, hardened Chief Medical Officer and southern-bred gentleman to tears, but damn it all if his throat wasn’t tightening suspiciously, immediately drawn to give his husband the reassurance he needed. It had felt awkward, at first in the early stages of their relationship, allowing himself to be held rather than being the one to do the holding, being openly seductive when accustomed to being seduced. Loving Sarek had been easy to do…but it was the interplay of gender roles within a same sex relationship that had taken him time to get used to. Now, six months into their bond and just over a year since it all began, he found it easy to climb onto Sarek’s lap, to thread his fingers through short, argentine hair and press their foreheads together, his heart fuller than he’d ever thought possible since the abysmal failure that was his first marriage.

                “Sarek,” he wrapped his arms around the beloved body, so quietly forlorn with self-doubt, “you can’t keep doing this to yourself.” Leonard leaned back to pick up his love’s sturdy hands, tangling their fingers together in a hard, Vulcan kiss, “There ain’t nothin’ that I need from you that I don’t already have. There’s no fancy gesture of your feelings that you could make that would ever be _adequate_ enough to express what I know, what I feel…in here,” he pointed to his heart, then to his temple, “or up here…and I know it was the same for her…I don’t see how it couldn’t be. We can celebrate Christmas or Hanukkah, Thanksgiving, Valentine’s Day—I don’t give a damn about any of it, not really. They’re all just convenient excuses to spend time with you.

                “Don’t you see that? Any human gesture you could have made to Amanda, and any gesture you could make to me…it can’t hold a candle to sharing a Vulcan bond with you. There isn’t a moment of any day that I don’t feel your love, that I don’t know how cherished I am,” Leonard breathed a sigh of relief when Sarek’s shoulders relaxed, finally understanding and he grinned wolfishly, “But…if you really feel like you need to express yourself in a more…tangible way...” he pulled his t-shirt off and pressed their lips together, taking Sarek’s mouth with white-hot desire and sensual intent. When they broke apart for air, he managed to whisper, “Make love to me…that’s all I need. Just you.”

\--

                As they often did when emotions ran high between them, Sarek’s hands shook with restraint as he rolled them into the center of the bed, his hands flying to the fastenings of his robe. His gloriously human bondmate, impatient as himself to feel their naked flesh unite, pushed his fumbling digits aside, grabbing the robe by the lapels and tearing it apart, oblong buttons flying in all directions. Leonard gripped him behind the neck and pulled him down for a kiss, moaning into his throat as their bare torsos finally collided.

                Sarek made quick work of his mate’s underwear, the final barrier between them—its delicate fabric not faring much better than his robe in the face of their desire. His brows furrowed and his eyes closed in an indecent show of bliss as their unclothed lengths sought and found the friction of skin. “Oh…” he moaned aloud when his testicles slid against Leonard’s, hot and soft, a vivid contrast to the hardness of their seeking organs, all of it slick with the rush of Vulcan precum.

                “Oh, God, Sarek,” Leonard keened, “please…need you inside me.”

                “Yes,” Sarek groaned a harsh whisper, as he reluctantly pulled away to snatch a pillow and place it under his husband’s hips. Leonard’s legs fell open in invitation and Sarek’s cock pulsed wantonly in reaction. The pucker of his mate’s entrance beckoned to him, and he stroked it lovingly with the pad of his thumb, before placing his leaking head just below Leonard’s large scrotum, sliding it up and down the spread crevice to slicken the area. He watched with thinly veiled appreciation as Leonard thrashed beneath him, his hips undulating in open encouragement, so different…so much more sure than the first time they’d made love. It made his heart beat quicken with pride.

\--

                Leonard was swiftly coming unglued at Sarek’s teasing preparation. His body had been well-loved in the time that he and Sarek had become physical well over a year ago. He was past the point of needing constant preparing and his lover knew it, enjoying the teasing as much as the actual act, Leonard knew. The hot slide of his mate’s alien cock, slick and firm, against his hole was driving him insane with need.“Enough, damn it,” he whined. “ _Fuck me already…”_ he pushed his ass up against the teasing organ. His own cock was so hard, so hard and seeking. He wrapped one hand around it, shamelessly jacking himself off in front of his mate, “Oh God...touch me, fuck me…fill me… _”_

“As you wish,” Sarek replied huskily, bending over his husband and sinking inside with a low, guttural moan. He whispered haggardly against Leonard’s ear when he was fully seated, “Thy body is haven.”

                Leonard was lost, basking in the familiar feeling of being stretched and filled, his eager hole sending tendrils of pleasure up his spine as Sarek moved inside of him; He tightened his grip on his member, balls heavy and full, aching with pleasure as they rocked against one another. He didn’t dare stroke it, knowing he’d go off like a rocket if he did and he wanted to draw it out for as long as humanly possible. Leonard had never fancied himself as the kind of guy that would enjoy anal—despite that little bundle of nerves that, as a doctor, he knew existed and what the supposedly pleasurable consequences associated with stimulating it were. He just hadn’t been able to get past thinking of that particular area of his body as an exit only, not particularly turned on by the idea of shoving something the size of a lemon up an opening the size of a grape…

                He really hadn’t considered just how pleasurable the stretch and slide of a full, hard cock against the skin and nerves of that opening could be…hadn’t _wanted_ to find out…until Sarek. That first time his Vulcan had let Leonard plunder his body, he’d seen how much his lover had enjoyed it and then it had become something he needed…something only Sarek could give him. And oh…oh, how glorious it had been…his mate’s hot tongue licking him open, agile fingers stretching and fucking his hole until he’d _begged_ for Sarek’s cock, begged to be fucked into the mattress. Kind of like now…

                “Harder,” he practically screamed, needing to feel it _more_ …deeper…faster.  Sarek obeyed, pushing in with as much force as he dared, the head of his dick nailing Leonard’s prostate so hard it made his legs quiver. “Fuuuuck….” He moaned, driving his hips down to meet his lover’s thrusts.

                “Yesss…” Sarek hissed, banging into his ass with measured force, swirling hips and arching his back as Leonard’s clenching hole pulled on his cock like a tight, sucking mouth. “OH…!”

                Leonard felt Sarek release into him and he finally pumped his cock…once, twice, writhing with bliss…three times and he was coming in long strips of thick, white cream that coated his stomach and chest. “Oh God…” and they hadn’t even melded that time. He was still twitching with orgasm when Sarek slipped from his body and his hot mouth closed over Leonard’s cock to suck out the remaining fluids, his tongue licking a path down the shaft and up his abdomen, lapping up his emission like a thirsty kitten.

                When he was finished, Sarek collapsed onto his lover, his arms hooked over his mate’s spread thighs, head resting just above his spent shaft. “You see?” McCoy said after a while, his fingers brushing back silver bangs, “How could I ever doubt you after sharin’ something like that?”

                Sarek drew in a deep breath, allowing himself to relax in the love he felt in his human’s embrace, “You are right, beloved. Forgive me my illogical insecurities.”

                Leonard propped himself up on an elbow, using his other hand to draw Sarek to him, enjoying the way he crawled forward up the length of his body on hands and knees until their lips finally met and they sank back onto the mattress together. “Merry Christmas, darlin’,” he whispered against Sarek’s subtle non-smile. He pulled the tray back over from the bedside table and sat it between them, lifting a piece of toast to Sarek’s lips. “Let’s be romantic saps together,” he winked, “Just this once.”


	2. Part Two: Captain and Commander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim and Spock's turn. :)

Jim stretched and yawned, rousing from sleep like an overfed mongrel and loving every minute of it. God, it was good to be on leave and just in time for the holidays too. _And what a lovely Christmas morning it is,_ he thought with a happy sigh, looking toward the window where the drapes were pulled back to reveal a snow-blanketed Iowa. Once upon time, Jim might have spent this day getting drunk and in a bar fight, but for the past three years…he’d found a better way to celebrate. He glanced at the deserted area of bed to his left with a grin… _Spock…_

                This was their second Christmas together as bondmates, but it still felt new to wake up in love, married and knowing his soul mate was not only real, but padding around somewhere close within the vicinity. Spock had led him on a merry chase, shooting down every attempt he made at trying to get to know the Vulcan outside of duty. It wasn’t until he’d kicked Spock’s ass at chess that his First Officer had taken an interest, even if it was purely platonic at first. He’d already been smitten by then and it didn’t take long for him to fall—hard and irrevocably.

                For so long they’d danced around one another, two-stepping and teasing until Jim had been near-fatally stabbed in the spleen. He’d woken up to soft caresses at his temple and warm brown eyes, looking at him with so much love…so much devotion…that Jim had let slip the words he’d promised he’d never say to anyone, completely without thought and without hesitation. It had come out as a croak, his voice sore and protesting with dehydration, “God, I love you more than fucking air—”

                He still isn’t sure who moved first, just that all of sudden they were kissing and Spock was all around him and through him—in his mind and loving him there too. Vaguely, he’d heard the distant sound of a dozen pieces of medical equipment blaring all around, but no one stormed in and he still wondered about that…wondered how much it had taken for Bones to let them have their moment. They’d bonded fairly quickly after that, unintentionally, not that either of them minded. At least as bondmates, Command couldn’t separate them, not that they would even try—the _Enterprise_ held the highest rate of satisfied missions completed than any other vessel in history, taking Archer and Pike’s records and smashing them to bits.

                Yes, life was good, he mused, perfectly content to lay there for a little while longer…except he was starting to get a whiff of something… _burning_? There was a loud clank of metal hitting floor, followed immediately by the sound of a smoke alarm. Jim was out of bed and rushing down the stairs at record speed. He followed the smoke trail straight into the kitchen where he stopped dead in his tracks, momentarily shocked at the scene that greeted him: Spock was spraying the inside of the oven with a fire extinguisher, his robe billowing behind him like a cape as he moved rapidly from side to side to douse the flames that were attempting to emerge.

                Jim stood there gaping for indeterminable moments before the smell of smoke and the blaring alarm reached him once again and he snapped out of it with a shake of his head. He grabbed the broom from the corner and waved it at the smoke until the alarm stopped screeching and then turned to face his wreck of a husband. Spock’s hair was askew, his robe was singed at the corners and his cheeks were flushed that subtle olive color that Jim adored. The sink was full of discarded pots and pans, each of them coated with traces of charred food.  There appeared to be over a dozen remains of poor, innocent eggs—blackened to bits—and countless slices of burnt toast in the recycler. On the table, there was a bowl of hideously mangled fruit, over-buttered bread (apparently Spock had abandoned the toast idea) and a large pitcher of orange juice, freshly squeezed if the seeds and bits of rind floating at the top were anything to go by. He couldn’t help it, he laughed hysterically, and really, could you blame him? “What…the…hell,” he managed between chuckles after a few minutes, “are…you…doing?”

                Spock raised an indignant eyebrow in an attempt to appear unfazed by the chaos surrounding them as he addressed Jim stoically, “I was attempting to prepare sustenance for the morning meal which I intended to present to you at such a time that you awakened.”

                Jim’s laughter died abruptly as twinges of humiliation and disappointment flittered briefly across their bond before being ruthlessly withdrawn. Spock calmly placed the dishtowel he held (also singed) onto the counter and made to flee the room, probably intending to shower and then meditate the rest of Christmas away in moping solitude. Jim was faster though and intercepted his lover with ease, “You were making me breakfast in bed?”

                Spock’s ears flushed even more intensely and Jim felt his heart flip in his chest, “You have often mentioned your disquiet with replicated meals. I had thought to prepare you something authentic, as a seasonal gesture; however, the dishes I chose to prepare proved to be more complex than their recipes implied.”

                Jim lips quivered with the effort not to laugh, covering it up with an awkward cough, for which he earned a glare. He redirected, “What, uh, recipes were you trying to do?”

                “Does it matter?” Spock asked, clearly not wanting to discuss it further.  His eyes swept over the table behind Jim, then down to the floor in what could only be described as a Vulcan pout, “I cannot even slice fruit.” The Vulcan once again turned and headed for the stairs, but Jim couldn’t stand seeing his usually confident lover, his unflappable First Officer, looking so utterly dejected, especially on Christmas.

                Jim rounded on the table, took up the bowl of deformed…fruit…pieces— _who the hell slices grapes?—_ and then swept his arm across the surface, knocking the orange juice and buttered bread to the floor. He then quickly placed the fruit on the closest chair and waited as he heard Spock change directions, heading back down the stairs now—and in a hurry.

                “Jim?” Spock took in the scene—the spilled juice and scattered bread (luckily he had used plastic utensils instead of the china he had originally considered) and the hapless expression on his mate’s face, “What happened? Are you injured?” Curiously, he could sense nothing over their link…

                Jim eyed the floor then glanced back at Spock, “Oops,” he shrugged remorsefully. “I was trying to clean up…”

                Jim watched triumphantly as Spock breathed a resigned non-sigh, and made his way over to help. Once he was within range, Jim swept a leg under the Vulcan’s feet, knocking him off balance only to catch him around the shoulders to lower him gently onto the table. Spock, still reeling from the morning’s disastrous attempt at cooking—his humiliation a tangible force—was stripped of his robe and underwear and laid out by his bondmate before his mind was even able to process what was happening.  His eyes flew around the room, searching for Jim only to find him bent between his splayed thighs, “T’hyla, what—Hrrnghn…”

                Soft lips and wet heat had engulfed the head of his previously flaccid organ, causing all blood flow to redirect to the point of sensation. He looked down the length of the table once more to see wicked blue eyes gazing back at him seductively, pink lips surrounding his length and he hardened completely, arousal fluid seeping from his organ, out of Jim’s mouth and down his shaft. He threw his head back against the table as desire overtook him, unashamed at his own uncontrolled response. This is how it was between them, always, every time just as intense…just as profound as the first. He could never feel shame at the pleasure his mate wrought from him.

                Jim’s mouth moved lower now and his silky, wet tongue laved his testicles with wild ferocity. There was no rhythm, no discernible pattern and it was this above all else that drove Spock’s body beyond its limits of control. It was the _way_ Jim tasted him—hungrily, desperately, his mouth seeking to cover every inch of his aching sack, sucking each testicle in and out sporadically. The slide of Jim’s chin down his perineum, followed by the swirl of lips and teeth and tongue against his rectal muscle caused him to jackknife on the table with a loud, “Oh!”

                _Damn, that’s sexy,_ Jim’s voice reverberated over their link, and Spock received a mental image of exactly what he looked like at that moment—head thrown back, so that his neck was completely exposed, his back arched, chest heaving, hands gripping either side of the table and his legs spread in open invitation as his cock shot straight up, hovering just above his abdomen, hard, leaking and flushed with heat—a picture of complete uninhibited, Vulcan desire. The image faded to be replaced by ripples of intense lust and love, and he moaned with the pleasure he derived from being caressed both physically and mentally by his mate.

                The fact that Jim, a human, could wield the link between them with the ease of which an artist wields a paint brush was astonishing. He had been completely at a loss when, at the height of their first physical joining, Jim’s consciousness had flooded into his own without provocation, despite the shields he’d had in place. Spock’s own mind had instinctively, as a reflex, grasped the tendrils of such a compatible mind and intertwined them before he could stop it, and they had both come undone…inside and out. A spontaneous life bond, something that hadn’t happened in over a millennia, had formed between them.

                Spock was returned from his reverie by the slide of two fingers past his entrance and into his channel, twisting and spreading, wetting his passage with his own fluids. “God, Spock…you’re always so tight…”

                “Vulcan…muscular…” he trailed off, unable to finish as a third finger pressed inside and he whimpered with the pleasure of it.

                “Shh…I know, I know…” Jim ran his free hand up and down Spock’s quivering thighs, knowing he’d never get tired of seeing Spock as he was now, writhing and moaning, gracelessly fucking himself on Jim’s fingers. “Mmmm…” Jim hummed, bending down to lick the tip of Spock’s glorious organ, “you taste so good. Better than eggs and toast—burnt or not, I promise.” Jim chuckled at the slight mortified groan Spock gave in response to his teasing, turning it into a moan of pleasure when he added a fourth finger for Spock to ride. His husband’s head shot up and the desperation he saw in those beautiful brown eyes had him mercifully withdrawing his fingers and pulling Spock down the table, until his hips rested on the edge of the mahogany surface.

Jim smeared his cock with copious amounts of the fluid Spock always produced, and then gently gripped his mate behind the knee of each leg, pulling them to his shoulders. His hands slid down Spock’s thighs and over his buttocks, pulling the delicious mounds apart as he positioned the tip of his cock. He pushed past the first two rings of muscle slowly, knowing that the initial penetration was his bondmate’s favorite part, then slowly inched in until he was fully submerged, surrounded by alien heat on all sides. He rolled his hips, rocking them together, just the way he knew Spock liked it and his own eyes rolled into the back of his head. Always so good…always so perfect…tight and hot, clenching and pulling; there wasn’t anything he loved more than being buried in Spock’s body, other than maybe being filled by it.

He looked down at where the were joined, watching as his cock slid deep inside, then pulled all the way out, his tip reaming Spock’s wet hole before pushing back in. He licked his lips at the sight of the arching back beneath him, unable to quell a humbled moan. He shrugged off Spock’s legs and leaned forward, allowing them to wrap around his hips instead; he needed to taste those lips. Their mouths met eagerly, tongues seeking to express what words could not, imitating the motions of their bodies as they pushed closer to the pinnacle. He trailed kisses down Spock’s exposed neck, his hands reverently flowing over the Vulcan’s sides and arms in an attempt to soothe and love and comfort.

Spock’s hands were in his hair, massaging and tugging gently. His husband loved his hair, Jim knew, because it was soft and tickled his fingers—something of a kink his husband had. Jim thought it was hot as hell, loved the way Spock loved him—all of him—from hair to soul. “God, you’re perfect,” Jim managed to say before licking the areole of one peaked nipple, “perfect and mine, and I love you so much.”

Spock’s heart swelled at Jim’s words, his body singing with pleasure and his consciousness flooded with emotions not his own. “ _Jim_ ,” it was little more than a breathy whisper, followed by a string of indiscernible Vulcan. Jim sealed their mouths together once more, pulling one of Spock’s hands down to his temple, silently asking. Hot finger tips settled over his meld points and they were instantly together, tangled and loving, flowing together as one. They didn’t always meld during sex, as it could sometimes be overwhelming with their bond being as strong as it was, but when they did it was like watching the waves of the sea crash against the shore line, alternating between slow motion and rapid forward movement.

                _Morefasterharderdeeperplease_ flooded Jim’s mind and he happily complied, driving his hips forcefully forward, snapping back, then shoving in again, over and over. He could feel the tip of his cock hammering against just the right spot, could tell from the litany of moans and Vulcan swearing, that his mate was close and so he let go, driving his mind and body into that of his husband. _That’s it…that’s it…let it go…come for me…come with me…_

                And Spock did; bursts of white light blinded them both in the meld and a surge of sensations flittered over their combined nervous systems. Jim was coming, hard and loudly, fucking into his lover in earnest as he spilt himself deep inside, and at the same time feeling the energy sapped from his limbs. Powerful arms came to wrap around his shoulders, holding him up so that when his legs collapsed—and they definitely would, always did after climaxing in a meld—he wouldn’t fall to the ground. He was vaguely aware of being pulled as Spock moved them both back up the table, so they could lay and recover comfortably…well, as comfortably as one did on a hard, wooded table top.

                At some point, Jim regained enough of his wits to remember the bowl of fruit. It was, luckily, on his side of the table, sitting patiently on the chair where he’d left it. He scooped it up and turned back into Spock’s embrace, placing it on the Vulcan’s stomach. He looked up to see an upturned eyebrow and grinned, “What? I thought we could have breakfast in bed…you did go through all the trouble of slicing it…”

                Spock eyed the bowl of fruit with thinly veiled disdain, remembering how difficult it had been to cut each piece into the desired shape with precision. Each type of fruit was a different consistency, providing varying degrees of resistance against the blade of his paring knife, so that instead of cutting the appropriate shape, the blade would either slide with too much ease or too little, resulting in the ugly chunks within the bowl instead of the snowflakes and holly leaves he’d been trying to design. Still, he _was_ hungry, and Jim did not seem to mind that the pieces were not aesthetically pleasing and so he reached into the bowl and lifted a crudely cut portion of mango to his lips and allowed himself to forget about the morning’s fiasco. He then offered Jim what could loosely be described as a square chunk of pineapple, ‘hmmm’-ing when pink lips closed over his fingers to take the offering. Loving blue eyes peered up at him, “Best Christmas breakfast ever.”

                With a slight quirk of his lips, and an errant glance at the chaos surrounding them—burnt pots, spilled juice and buttered bread, the destroyed oven and charred food in the recycler—Spock found that he could not disagree. He glanced down again at his lover, happily chewing on another distorted piece of fruit and reasoned that indeed the means—however disastrous—were justified by the end result.

**Author's Note:**

> I also write original m/m erotica fiction, if you're interested. You can find it [here](http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/index.php?cPath=55_1117)


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